by Taylor Kole
Attending the summit as a representation of knowledge and confidence, his suit presented a side of him he was unsure existed. Embracing that he had been, was a decent person, dragged the eighty-twenty skew toward a complete meltdown. Having once read that a smile blocked melancholy, he forced his mouth to upturn. It somewhat helped.
Rosa spent most of the morning at her preferred salon. For the past hour she’d been in the bathroom, with the occasional dart to the closet for this or that.
The inner him might dislike what his appearance portrayed, but as he rotated for peripheral views, he could see this Alex being photographed on the red carpet and plastered in major magazines. He sniffled and thought about his first magazine cover, Computer World. He was just as uncertain today as then.
By this time tomorrow, Alex would cover thousands of magazines, newspapers, and webpages. He hoped the captions would read Alex Cutler, Catalyst of Peace. But he feared many would be labeled Alex Cutler, Assistant to Tyranny.
This big-ticket event lacked the glitz of a red-carpet gala. However, the global summit would provide more drama than anything the most talented fiction writer in Hollywood could sensationalize.
Everyone with access to media would be transfixed by their screens until the summit concluded. Everyone would soon learn if their nation, and by proxy, their loved ones, would be plunged into war.
Throughout the previous weeks, Alex had traversed the United States. In each major city, he employed his resources to gather the desired network. His station gained him access to any office, his presence garnered attention, and the belief he showed for his current work instilled dedication.
Through these meetings—often with well-connected individuals—and encrypted updates from Luke Dean, Alex learned of many nefarious plans in incubation. Each one compelled him to go a little further.
In spite of receiving continued silence from every attempt to contact his mentor, the rumors of Adisah’s murder and Eridu being hijacked by an American-born terror organization threatened to stunt him with despair. Like with his youth, the heavy workload buried the pain.
Additional verified information said a US Army general planned terrorist acts against Atriums on foreign soil.
Alex believed that he, and his team, presented the only scenario for thwarting those plots and avoiding World War III, a conflict to dwarf all prior.
His strategy disturbed him and conflicted on inner, outer, and social levels. He typically avoided actions on such a grand scale. Lying to people hurt, he kept doing it, and the wheels kept turning. With his network growing exponentially, momentum reached an avalanche—and that force would soon meet an immovable object.
Stepping out of the bathroom, Rosa commanded an overhead light to shine on her. “How do I look?”
Taking her in, his eyebrows raised of their own volition. Despite the worry regarding his finale’s implication, he swelled with affection toward Rosa. If he deserved to cover a magazine, she should wallpaper newsstands. She wore a hip-hugging black dress that showed off the hours she dedicated daily to her fitness. A diamond necklace glittered around her neck, and a matching bracelet cast flecks of light on the wall and floor. But neither of those accessories outshined the beauty of her face—the softness of her skin, the fullness of her lips. Her brown eyes beamed as if polished. Her satiny, dark hair had a slight curl and bounced against her shoulder.
A lump caught in his throat when he thought of all she might endure because of his actions. She deserved a life free from strife. Knowing such a life didn’t exist pained him.
“That good, huh?” she said.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said honestly. He strode over, and kissed her passionately.
After a half-minute of mutual enjoyment, she nudged him away. Her smile threatened to pull him in for more, but she laid her palms on his chest and shook her head.
“Did you know there’s a presidential motorcade waiting for us?”
“You deserve nothing less.”
“Look at the big charmer.” She blushed, and reexamined herself in the mirror. “If only all the death threats didn’t necessitate my chariot being bomb-proof.”
Turning her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. With their stomachs pressed together, his weight gain was emphasized. He’d been knocking out two to four Oreo package a day.
“Everyone of those threats are directed at me. Without me in the picture, you’re perfectly safe.”
She put her hands on his forearms. “They want a piece of you, they’re going to have to go through me.” Another grin, and she pried his hands off, smoothed the wrinkles from her dress.
The thought that some psycho might agree with her constantly troubled him. He kissed her neck and stepped away, dabbing a tear from his eye.
“It is ten minutes to four,” Victor announced, per Rosa’s instructions.
Along with three military officials from the West Coast, Alex would log into the Lobby at five-thirty from the Los Angeles Atrium and rendezvous with the rest of their delegation by using President Tanner as a reference.
Alex knew that America’s committee members had been cramming all day, every day, for the past few weeks on what to say to who, on the cultural differences for displaying respect, but he’d been on his own mission, to save humanity.
Last night was his first night home in nearly a month, leaving him no time to do the one thing he’d hoped to do: update Rosa on his plan’s intricate details and the reasoning behind them, and attempt to convince her of the plan’s benefits.
On the flight home, he’d penned a letter, figuring he could revise it a time or two and then read it aloud to her.
That opportunity never presented itself.
Swallowing his regret, he focused on the task at hand. In an hour and a half, she’d have her explanation. Hopefully, he’d be viewed as the genius who averted what analysts predicted as a guaranteed global conflict, in every nation and city.
Alex stared at the back wall, viewing the rolling surf of a private Caribbean beach: a large sun in the distance, crystal blue waters, white sand. Illusion or not, it provided the soothing effect Rosa intended.
“We’ll get there,” she said, sidling up to him in hers, taking his hand, and staring at the twelve-by-ninety-foot screen.
Dabbing another tear, he thought, We’re in so much danger, and she has no idea.
Adisah had been, at best, incommunicado for a month, and the possibility of his murder, however unpleasant, loomed. If he’d been killed in spite of the cult-like following of ex-military security forces around him, what chance did Alex and Rosa stand?
As Alex thought about the approaching events, Rosa squeezed his hand. After another minute or two, they separated and walked to the elevator.
As soon as the doors opened to Legion’s main floor, he saw the security presence. Professional types, wearing suits, earpieces—crack shots who emptied clips into center mass.
Six men occupied the space from the elevator to the front door. As the couple passed them, they fell in behind.
Outside, the real weather appeared: a light drizzle, clouds, suffocating humidity. More than unusual for Los Angeles in the summer. But these times were more than unusual.
A pair of helicopters hovered overhead. Men with dark sunglasses and rain slickers scanned everything in sight. Thanks to Luke, Alex knew that military vehicles filled with soldiers waited nearby, that snipers manned roofs, and that a dedicated satellite would monitor the entire trip.
They passed by foot-thick, reinforced steel doors to enter the limousine. Alex had learned the doors could withstand a direct hit from a rocket-propelled grenade.
Inside, the small, muted television flickered with activity. The news broadcasted a crowd of Lobby protestors, accentuating their emotion with a constant jostling. Judging from the surrounding architecture and vehicles, Europe was hosting this particular skirmish.
Retrieving the remote, Rosa turned off the monitor. “Seeing that doesn’t h
elp.”
Staring at the blank screen, Alex wondered if his plan and all the extreme work it involved would have the positive outcome he imagined, or if he’d just doomed humankind.
“Mr. Cutler?” Luke’s voice sounded through an intercom in the vehicle. Alex pressed the button to reply to his head of security, who was riding in the passenger seat.
“Yes?”
“You might want to watch channel seventeen, a local station with coverage around the Los Angeles Atrium.”
Rosa picked up the remote, held it away from Alex, then turned on the TV.
Though interested, he continued to stare out his window.
They had chosen a route through a residential neighborhood. Two police motorcycles led and trailed the motorcade. Their blue-and-red lights swirled, but no siren sounded. The nine-vehicle convoy must have presented quite a spectacle when viewed from a living room couch.
Rosa sucked in breath between her teeth, drawing his attention to the television.
The amount of people packed in close made Alex think an angry mob was storming a warehouse that held the depleting cure of a killer virus.
Aerial shots showed heavy rain. Thousands of people littered the light-industrial area surrounding the Los Angeles Atrium, a place he’d grown so familiar with. The picket signs were split between support and calls for the Lobby’s annihilation.
The parking lot remained empty, yet seeing it without vehicles seemed nearly as strange as the demonstrators. Police and military officers in full riot gear manned wooden barriers along the parking lot’s exterior, shoving back the swell of bodies.
More sophisticated barriers were erected fifty yards in. The officers protecting that area held rifles. Hopefully, they’d be loaded with tear gas and rubber pellets, but the live stuff—ammunition for killing—would be close at hand.
The armored limousine slowed in the middle of a side street and halted. Alex surveyed each window view. Wondering why they had stopped?
Behind him, two SUVs formed a V by parking their noses together to block the road.
“Mr. Cutler?” Luke said over the intercom.
Alex attempted to peer out the windshield, but the car’s length prevented him.
“Do you see something?” Rosa asked.
“Mr. Cutler,” Luke said, “they’ve decided to bring you and Mrs. Cutler in by air. The upcoming roadways are congested and unsafe.”
A final glance at the news broadcast ended any thoughts of opposing the suggestion. The camera panned out, granting an expanded view. Tents, barrel fires, booths—the scene reminded Alex of a Third World refugee camp. Except outrage, anger, and defiance, not necessity, bound those present.
Turning off the television, Rosa stated, “I hope this helicopter has a closed cabin. I spent four hours on my hair.” Her smile faded before it fully formed.
A squadron of men rushed to the limousine and stood sentry around it, waiting for the black helicopter, which had a sealed cabin, to touch down.
The limousine doors on both sides opened simultaneously. One team attended to Alex, the other to Rosa. With force just short of a yank, they pulled him out, bent him forward at the waist, and huddled around him as if snipers lurked behind the windows of the surrounding suburban homes.
During liftoff, he noticed that many of the neighborhood residents had exited their homes, stood in driveways or on front lawns. Alex couldn’t shake the scary truth. According to the math, at least one of those people hated him.
The thought of being that paranoid—and the danger threatened Rosa—again reminded him of past invitations from Dr. Brad Finder, who lived on his own island off the coast of Argentina. But Alex knew that wouldn’t work. If insurgents could root out Adisah, relocating was only a temporary fix.
Seeing Rosa patting her hair, Alex gave her a thumbs up as to its perfection, and with the exception of one side puffed out two inches, and fifty strands seemingly zapped with electricity, he was telling the truth.
Approaching the mob revealed it stretched ten times farther than the news had shown. A half-mile separated Alex from the edge of the bedlam, yet even directly beneath them, in a residential area, groups of people camped out.
The passing helicopters magnetized faces, drawing people from smoking grills, car windows, and huddles. Umbrellas tipped like dominoes. Arms waved, and plastic-wrapped signs shook up and down and from side to side. Driving through that would have been impossible.
A tink sounded against the craft’s underbelly. The helicopter jerked upward, climbing at a steep angle.
A security officer across from Alex held his finger to his ear, then leaned forward. “Someone took a potshot at us. Small arms can’t penetrate our armored hull, but we’re increasing altitude as a precaution.”
The new elevation exposed more of the crowd, and the downpour. Judging by the amount of rain, the Los Angeles Atrium was its epicenter. Once they centered over the parking lot near the main door, they eased onto the pavement. The helicopter landing on the asphalt elevated his anxiety. It made today and his actions real.
Alex and Rosa had spent enough time with security details that they knew to remain seated until instructed otherwise. Two groups of soldiers rushed from the Atrium. A few carried bulletproof shields. They formed a horseshoe on both sides of the craft, and whether by design or bad luck, they’d landed where Rosa had to climb out on the far side, closest to the protestors.
Indoors, Alex rose to his full height and found himself in a sea of suits and military uniforms.
Rosa led him by the hand to a nearby bench.
Before he gathered the strength to reach for her letter and read the important words, she said, “Big day, huh?”
He hesitated.
“You’re going to be okay, Alex. It’s all so awful. But you know what? You might end up being a man historians talk about for generations?”
Over the past few weeks, that idea had increasingly crept into his thoughts. If the world survived, would his actions be considered noble or heinous? Would he be a liberator or an enslaver? In his unrecognized arrogance, he’d never thought about how the world would view his loyal, supportive wife. Perhaps because that one was easy: “I’m not sure what future historians will say about me,” he said, “but all mentions of you will start with benevolence, and philanthropy.”
Her face lightened, but her lips frowned, as if anchored by inner sorrow. She’d seen his restlessness, weight gain, and irritability. “I know this has been a whirlwind,” she said. “I just hope when it’s done, we can get away for a while.”
He reached for the envelope.
“Mr. Cutler?” a man in a navy blue uniform said. The many medals on his chest clanked with each movement, like a tambourine of pride. A man in a designer suit waited behind him. Alex first thought of the envelope. He should shove the envelope into Rosa’s hand, but he wanted to read it aloud.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” The officer said to Rosa. Then, to Alex, “Mr. Cutler?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Colonel Emelander. A room full of people is waiting for you. If you’ll excuse us, ma’am, it’s urgent that we brief your husband.”
“I understand,” she stood, and looked Alex over.
He wasn’t ready. He had so much to say—to her, about her, about him, about the world and the Lobby, and his work these past weeks.
Leaning over, she kissed him, and despite his plan’s uncertainty, the soft touch of her lips scattered his worry—he’d always have her love.
He exhaled, forced the letter back into his pocket. At least he’d written it all down. He appreciated that, because after this meeting, no matter how it went, the world would be a different place.
Chapter Forty-Three
The men in suits had requested Alex’s presence, but his summons lacked pragmatism; it was simply a display of power. Thank you for your great contribution. Thank you for allowing me to help. Did everything go as you planned? Yes. Were there any problems we should know about? Umm…no.
To these bureaucratic men of prominence, Alex was a computer nerd, like thousands of others. He received a job, and had completed it. He held no official title, knew nothing of politics, and should have no part in the negotiations. To many, his involvement was just them coddling an arrogant, rich man.
This situation was a story as ancient as time. These men were the old hats, unable to accept how fast the world shifted. In 1966, Gordon Moore, who later went on to found Intel, proposed Moore’s law, which stated that, in the modern era, technology doubled every eighteen months. That law itself had become outdated. Today’s technology doubled in bursts. Crackling explosions of progress detonating simultaneously from multiple launch points. Science, medicine, space, nanites—the world was constantly swelling with advancements. One day, perhaps soon, that tension would burst and precipitate a reset.
Alex believed that society must be governed with limited oversight, particularly the Lobby. Don’t take from others. That could be the lone law. Searching for criminals in every unfortunate act, needing to terminate after lost profits, war—all were ridiculous.
Any war fought over the Lobby involved controlling it. That understanding motivated Alex.
Ten minutes into his summons, he learned his attendance at the summit hadn’t been a request by the so-called New Age Allies—his team—but rather a demand from the other side. The Eastern world valued his input. Alex knew Sung Yi, the monk, had been expounding Alex’s greatness for weeks. Despite the absurdity of the monk’s sermons, Alex felt proud that his unexpected contribution offered the best chance for a peaceful resolution.
At the appropriate time, the group moved to the elevators and waited for transport to the access rooms. He stood in the back, allowed the others to board first—some of whom had probably forgotten he was with them.
Standing with a group of analysts, he listened to them explain that if the East and West reached a compromise, the Middle East would bow out with nothing more than threats. That, or it would be destroyed. The Middle East nations maintained impressive armies, when compared to one another, but the powerhouses of the world were still Japan, Great Britain, China, Russia, and the United States. Any one of them could battle, and possibly defeat, a Middle Eastern coalition. The analysts trivialized the seeming inevitability of mass casualties, which turned Alex’s stomach.